Saturday, August 23, 2014

"Who Do You Think Did It?" by Stephen Leacock

Deal Me In Lite, Week 8: “Who Do You Think Did It?” by Stephen Leacock

This week we go back to the humorous short stories with the
six of hearts and a story by the famous Canadian humorist, Stephen Leacock.His style of humor is definitely in the vein
of Robert Benchley’s works, and in fact Leacock is said to have greatly admired
Benchley.Among famous admirers of Leacock’s
humor were Jack Benny and Groucho Marx, to name two, so if you are unfamiliar
with his writings, that should give you some idea of his style – dry wit, with
a penchant for wordplay and absurd situations and ideas.

A little about Leacock: he was born in England but went to
college in Canada and basically ended up in Canada for the majority of his
life.One thing I did not know was that
he earned a doctorate in political science and political economy from the
University of Chicago, and spent most of his career at McGill University where
he held an endowed chair in political economy.

Before I read “Who Do You Think Did It?” just about the only
Leacock story I was familiar with was “Gertrude the Governess.”It’s very funny and I think has probably been
widely anthologized.The present story,
as the title implies, is Leacock’s send-up of the typical murder mystery.It’s not a “knee-slapper,” as the saying
goes, but it is humorous in a dry, understated way.

For example, Leacock lampoons the classic murder mystery way
of gathering clues:

“Now, then,” continued
Kent, “what about tracks, footmarks? Had you thought of them?”

“Yes, first thing. The
whole lawn is covered with them, all stamped down. Look at these, for instance.
These are the tracks of a man with a wooden leg”—Kent nodded—“in all
probability a sailor, newly landed from Java, carrying a Singapore
walking-stick, and with a tin-whistle tied round his belt.”

“Yes, I see that,”
said Kent thoughtfully. “The weight of the whistle weighs him down a little on
the right side.”

And it gets even better:

“I must try in another
direction,” said Kent. “Let me reconstruct the whole thing. I must weave a
chain of analysis. Kivas Kelly was a bachelor, was he not?”

“He was. He lived
alone here.”

“Very good, I suppose
he had in his employ a butler who had been with him for twenty years—” Edwards
nodded. “I suppose you’ve arrested him?”

“At once,” said the
Inspector. “We always arrest the butler, Mr. Kent. They expect it. In fact,
this man, Williams, gave himself up at once.”

“And let me see,”
continued the Investigator. “I presume there was a housekeeper who lived on the
top floor, and who had been stone deaf for ten years?”

“Precisely.”

“She had heard nothing
during the murder?”

“Not a thing. But this
may have been on account of her deafness.”

“True, true,” murmured
Kent. “And I suppose there was a coachman, a thoroughly reliable man, who lived
with his wife at the back of the house—”

“But who had taken his
wife over to see a relation on the night of the murder, and who did not return
until an advanced hour. Mr. Kent, we’ve been all over that. There’s nothing in
it.”

The plot of this story hardly matters because it borders on
the absurd.Suffice it to say that
everything gets wrapped up in a completely implausible way, adding to the
ridiculousness of the plot.I wouldn’t
want a steady diet of this kind of story, but as an occasional respite from
more serious types of stories, it was very welcome.